Earlier tonight as I was having my third technicolour yawn of the evening I found myself thinking ‘oh good god what on earth possessed me to put myself through this?’ In that moment I wanted the ability to reach down my throat and rip all the staples out one by one. I was prepared to do anything to stop being sick and to stem the rather unattractive flow of snot from my nose. Being a lazy girl at heart I think secretly the bit I hated most was that I every time I need to spew I’d just managed to get comfortable on the sofa and so had to haul my badonkadonk back up again (thankfully I’m at the stage now where I no longer require a crane for such a manouevre) and haul arse to the kitchen.
Yes, it’s true I am a grim girlie whose choice of vomit receptacle is the sink – it’s at exactly the right height to allow ease of retch and means that I’m not hugging the toilet bowl and thus squishing my little pouch under Larry the left boob thereby making the vomit transit from stomach to mouth a little easier. I totalled six pavement pizzas last night, each more pitiful than the last and each bringing with it the sorts of noises a wildebeest might make having just been shot in the head. A bit like a hormonal Chewbacca shall we say.
And even though my evening was ruined by the digestive pyrotechnics and feeling pitiful (which would have been solved by a hug from the aforementioned 6’4″ hunk, or any hunk for that matter!) I actually had a bit of a breakthrough yesterday about this whole plateau bollocks. I say that I had a breakthrough but actually a breakthrough was thrust upon me by Muscle Mary, my healthy healthy healthy friend. Muscular Mary pointed out that it was a good thing my body had stopped losing as it shows that it can still regulate what is happening to it. For example what if I never hit a plateau? Would my body continue to shrink and not know when to stop, leaving me as a size 00 with a big old Hollywood lollipop head? I’d be like a feminine Flat Stanley – not a good look